


The True Method of Knowledge

by qthelights



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-19
Updated: 2008-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Ianto and the things that change them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The True Method of Knowledge

Ianto is different when Jack returns from his year of hell. It hasn’t been as long for Ianto, but it may as well have been, Jack thinks, for all the changes he can sense.

* * * 

Before he’d left, Ianto had been young and beautiful. Jack had wanted nothing more than to lap up Ianto’s enthusiasm. To peel off clothes like wrapping and expose his young pretty sparkly new toy. 

Jack had loved the way Ianto’s eyes had sparkled, _actually sparkled_ , when he made an inappropriate remark about the cut of his suit. The blush that came to his cheeks when he accidentally brushed his hand over Ianto’s fingers to take a file, a coffee mug or conveniently offered towel to mop up alien excretions. The sight would send a flutter of arousal through Jack’s chest and flare the pitch of his pupils wide.

It was harmless fun, and Jack enjoyed making Ianto uneasy. He was so young, so easy to ruffle, though he tried so hard to hide it behind cheek and bulteresque stoicism. Ironic, considering it was Ianto who had so devastatingly turned Jack’s protected shell, his sanctuary and his control into a nightmare of red shadows and panic. 

The second that Ianto had shouted at him, demanded to know if Jack had ever loved someone, he had understood. Had cursed himself for forgetting that behind Ianto’s intelligence and wisdom beyond his years was a man who was barely done being a child, a man still exploring what he was to become.

First loves were one of those experiences Ianto had still been embroiled in. The kind of love that was all consuming and more important than life itself. Made you risk everything in its pull. Cyberwomen in basements a somewhat extreme manifestation, granted, but no less desperate in intent than the way young lovers professed eternal devotion. The tears shed and the gaping yaw of first heartbreak before the twinges of potential pain would provide padding against future hurts.

Jack had accepted his failure to see clearly, and they had moved on. After the bitter taste of betrayal had faded, and the surprised jolt of relief at finding Ianto alive in a litter of blood, gore and body parts, Jack hadn’t waited long to claim Ianto as his. 

* * *

They had been alone in the hub late at night, as they often were. Each going about their own work quietly, separately, but in the synchronous harmonious knowledge that the other was there too, absent company. Jack’s concentration had long since wavered from the reports in front of him, and his gaze had fallen on Ianto in the kitchen area, tiredly shuffling sideways as he wiped the counter in methodical strokes with a bright blue cloth. Jack had wanted nothing more than to ease the fatigue out of Ianto’s body, a body too young to be weighted down with the secrets and care of a dark organization. 

He’d wandered into the kitchen quietly, Ianto looking up, his tired features beginning to flicker into a polite smile before stopping in puzzlement at the intensity of the gaze he found in Jack’s face. Jack had said nothing, and the silence had grown palpable between them, a curious, cautious wait. It was the stumble of Ianto’s fingers, a slight uncertain loosening of his grip on the blue of the cloth that had decided it for Jack. He had taken the remaining stride forward and pressed Ianto back against the sink with his hips, arms to either side of the other man’s body. The stuttered gasp that escaped Ianto’s lips, the wide eyed look, all traces of fatigue vanished, had made Jack grin wide, all teeth and glint, before he had pounced on Ianto’s parted lips.

Ianto’s arms had come up immediately to encircle him and pulled him tight and Jack had groaned at the acceptance and the hardness he felt pressed against his hipbone. The euphoria of having someone new and willing and so fucking gorgeous flaring up to invade his mind in cloudy lust.

He had undone Ianto’s belt with blind hands, Ianto’s tongue in his mouth teasing and claiming, his hands clenching and scrabbling at the back of Jack’s shirt. Jack had roughly pushed the pinstriped fabric of Ianto’s trousers down his thighs and hooked his fingers under the band of his underwear, dragged them down slower, letting his fingernails scrape burning white-pink lines along the flesh. His palm pressed flat against Ianto’s hardened cock had elicited a gasping moan that broke the kiss as Ianto had jerked into him. ‘Gorgeous,’ Jack had muttered, gripping Ianto’s waist and hoisting him up onto the edge of the counter. 

“Oh God,” Ianto had murmured, realizing what was happening as Jack sunk to his knees on the cold concrete floor. “Jack…” he’d tried to speak, but it came out as strangled cry as Jack licked the aching head before sucking Ianto into his mouth. Ianto’s head had fallen back against the overhead cabinets with a ‘thunk’ and Jack steadied Ianto’s hips with a firm pressure to stop him from jerking forward onto the floor.

Ianto’s fingers had grabbed the edge of the counter, knuckles white, as he writhed at Jack’s brutal assault. Jack sucked and swirled and grazed, lightly, but on the precipice of painful, and fairly demanded Ianto’s orgasm to belong to him. Jack had made sure his eyes were trained on Ianto’s flushed face as he had shuddered and bucked, spilling into his mouth. He thought it was one of the luckiest things he’d had the pleasure, _oh yes, definitely the pleasure_ , to see.

The cloth had long since fallen to the floor, a blue jewel at Jack’s dust covered knees, forgotten.

Later he had spread Ianto out on his bed, marvelling at the taut supple skin stretching over hipbones and ribs. So young. So beautiful. So real. Jack had explored every inch of Ianto’s warm skin, admiring how it looked when his fingers were splayed across the deceptively narrow expanse of Ianto’s waist, how completely his hands could engulf and claim. Ianto had watched silently, his head propped up on an arm, eyes still wide and even darker in the muted light coming from Jack’s office above. When Jack began tracing each rib with the flat of his tongue Ianto had tensed and then dropped his head back, breath ragged, his pillowed arm unfolding and fingers coming to rest in Jack’s hair.

Jack had gotten used to his Ianto, in his bed. It became a frequent occurrence and each time he had marvelled at the young lithe boy he got to play with, to keep. To discover. 

* * *

Now though, Ianto is different and Jack isn’t sure _how_ exactly, though he’s fairly sure he knows the _why_. Before he left, when he’d come back from temporary death, Ianto had shown his hesitance, actually going to shake hands with Jack as if not knowing whether he was allowed to show more. Jack had rolled his eyes at the naivety and reeled him into his arms.

That wasn’t the Ianto that now regarded him warily across the office space. An Ianto who watched him out of the corner of his eye with guarded suspicion, hands on his hips in, what - defiance, protection, anger? Jack didn’t know how to read this Ianto.

He sensed that the earlier approach, to simply walk up and take Ianto wasn’t going to work this time. It might be possible he could do it, persist with tongue, hands and hips until Ianto was forced to respond, to give into instinct and Jack. But there was a possibility of resentment this time. And it was Jack, after all, who had betrayed Ianto, had left without a word, to chase a dream that turned out to be all too real and not nearly as fulfilling. Did he get to control the situation, had he lost that right?

So instead he does the only thing he can think of on the spot, does something uncomfortably new and drastic, he asks him on a _date_. 

The younger Ianto would have said yes, maybe not immediately, maybe hidden behind a quip or a smirk, but sooner than this Ianto does. But at least he does say yes, and Jack is quietly ridiculously pleased and surprised that it seems to have worked. Who knew?

* * *

They eventually make it to that date, Jack nervous and Ianto fidgeting, not in youthful anticipation but in a mature cautious pacing. Ianto seems to come to a resolution over dinner and Jack, it seems, is to be forgiven. For his part, Jack finds himself becoming enthralled with this new Ianto. Behind the wariness he finds new found confidence, surety and strong laughter. When they make it back to the hub, playfully arguing over why the movie they just saw could not possibly work if the laws of physics still apply (Ianto sticks to logic, Jack knows logic is variable), it is Ianto that suddenly falls silent and Jack who turns to him questioning.

And it is Ianto, pupils blown wide and muscles tensed as if to pounce, who backs Jack roughly up against the wall of his office. Grinds his hips into Jack’s with what can only be described as a guttural growl. Jack can only manage a surprised exhalation of air as his back hits brick and Ianto pours himself over him. This Ianto isn’t so young, he thinks. This Ianto won’t blush at teases and touches. The sparkle cannot be called upon at Jack’s whim anymore. 

But it is still there, Jack notes with relief and not a small amount of arousal when later Ianto is straddling his hips, pinning Jack’s wrists to the mattress with the strong grip of one hand. As Ianto pauses momentarily in his mouth’s descent on Jack’s throat he catches Jack’s gaze, and, _oh yes_ , the sparkle is definitely still there. 

But it means something different now.

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me that the Ianto of season 2 is quite different than that of season 1, sure of himself and his place. I wanted to explore why. With smut ;)


End file.
